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THE  GRAND  CANYON 


THE  GRAND 
CANYON® 
AND  OTHER 
POEMS  ®Sy 

©©©HENRY 
VANDYKE 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribners  Sons 
MCMXIV 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  October.  1914 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  GRAND  CANYON  3 

SIERRA  MADRE  9 

TEXAS  11 

TURN  O'  THE  TIDE  27 

RAPPEL  D'AMOUR  29 

THE  FIRST  BIRD  O'  SPRING  30 

"GRAN'  BOULE"  32 

HEROES  OF  THE  "TITANIC"  39 

THE  STANDARD-BEARER  40 

PEACE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC  42 

CHRISTMAS  TEARS  44 

DOROTHEA  46 

THREE  PRAYERS  FOR  SLEEP  AND 

WAKING  47 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TOMB  IN  ENG 
LAND  50 

THE  TALISMAN  51 

THORN  AND  ROSE  52 

STAIN  NOT  THE  SKY  53 


<•>,      1     >  I   L 

o  *i' « >  v>  ^  -' 


CARMINA  FESTIVA 

Page 

How  Spring  Comes  to  Shasta  Jim  57 

Anglers'  Fireside  Song  60 

A  Bunch  of  Trout -Flics  61 

A  Ballad  of  Santa  Glaus  64 

The  Little-Neck  Clam  67 

Ars  Agricolaris  73 


vi 


THE  GRAND  CANYON 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  GRAND  CANYON 

DAYBREAK 

TT  7HAT  makes  the  lingering  Night  so  cling  to 
W    thee? 

Thou  vast,  profound,  primeval  hiding-place 
Of  ancient  secrets,  —  gray  and  ghostly  gulf 
Cleft  in  the  green  of  this  high  forest  land, 
And  crowded  in  the  dark  with  giant  forms ! 
Art  thou  a  grave,  a  prison,  or  a  shrine? 

A  stillness  deeper  than  the  dearth  of  sound 

Broods  over  thee:  a  living  silence  breathes 

Perpetual  incense  from  thy  dim  abyss. 

The  morning-stars  that  sang  above  the  bower 

Of  Eden,  passing  over  thee,  are  dumb 

With  trembling  bright  amazement;  and  the  Dawn 

Steals  through  the  glimmering  pines  with  naked 

feet, 

Her  hand  upon  her  lips,  to  look  on  thee. 
She  peers  into  thy  depths  with  silent  prayer 
For  light,  more  light,  to  part  thy  purple  veil. 
O  Earth,  swift-rolling  Earth,  reveal,  reveal, 
Turn  to  the  East,  and  show  upon  thy  breast 
The  mightiest  marvel  in  the  realm  of  Time ! 


"Tis  done,  —  the  morning  miracle  of  light,  — 
The  resurrection  of  the  world  of  hues 
That  die  with  dark,  and  daily  rise  again 
With  every  rising  of  the  splendid  Sun ! 

Be  still,  my  heart !     Now  Nature  holds  her  breath 
To  see  the  vital  flood  of  radiance  leap 
Across  the  chasm;  and  crest  the  farthest  rim 
Of  alabaster  with  a  glistening  white 
Rampart  of  pearl;  and  flowing  down  by  walls 
Of  changeful  opal,  deepen  into  gold 
Of  topaz,  rosy  gold  of  tourmaline, 
Crimson  of  garnet,  green  and  gray  of  jade, 
Purple  of  amethyst,  and  ruby  red, 
Beryl,  and  sard,  and  royal  porphyry; 
Until  the  cataract  of  colour  breaks 
Upon  the  blackness  of  the  granite  floor. 

How  far  below!     And  all  between  is  cleft 
And  carved  into  a  hundred  curving  miles 
Of  unimagined  architecture  !     Tombs, 
Temples,  and  colonnades  are  neighbored  there 
By  fortresses  that  Titans  might  defend, 
And  amphitheatres  where  Gods  might  strive. 
Cathedrals,  buttressed  with  unnumbered  tiers 
Of  ruddy  rock,  lift  to  the  sapphire  sky 
A  single  spire  of  marble  pure  as  snow; 
And  huge  aerial  palaces  arise 
Like  mountains  built  of  unconsuming  flame. 
Along  the  weathered  walls,  or  standing  far 
In  riven  valleys  where  no  foot  may  tread, 
Are  lonely  pillars,  and  tall  monuments 
Of  perished  seons  and  forgotten  things. 


My  sight  is  baffled  by  the  close  array 

Of  countless  forms:  my  vision  reels  and  swims 

Above  them,  like  a  bird  in  whirling  winds. 

Yet  no  confusion  fills  the  awful  chasm; 

But  spacious  order  and  a  sense  of  peace 

Are  wide  diffused.  [For  every  shape  that  looms 

Majestic  in  the  throng,  is  set  apart 

From  all  the  others  by  its  far-flung  shade, "j- 

Blue,  blue,  as  if  a  mountain-lake  were  there. 

How  still  it  is !  Dear  God,  I  hardly  dare 
To  breathe,  for  fear  the  fathomless  abyss 
Will  draw  me  down  into  eternal  sleep. 

What  force  has  formed  this  masterpiece  of  awe? 
What  hands  have  wrought  these  wonders  in  the 

waste  ? 

ID  river,  gleaming  in  the  narrow  rift 
Of  gloom  that  cleaves  the  valley's  nether  deep,  — 
Fierce  Colorado,  prisoned  by  thy  toil, 
And  blindly  toiling  still  to  reach  the  sea, — 
Thy  waters,  gathered  from  the  snows  and  springs 
Amid  the  Utah  hills,  have  carved  this  road 
Of  glory  to  the  Californian  Gulf. 
But  now,  O  sunken  stream,  thy  splendour  lost, 
'Twixt  iron  walls  thou  rollest  turbid  waves, 
Too  far  away  to  make  their  fury  heard ! 


At  sight  of  thee,  thou  sullen  labouring  slave 
Of  gravitation,  —  yellow  torrent  poured 
From  distant  mountains  by  no  will  of  thine, 
Through  thrice  a  hundred  centuries  of  slow^ 
Fallings  and  liftings  of  the  crust  of  Earth^/- 
At  sight  of  thee  my  spirit  sinks  and  fails. 
Art  thou  alone  the  Maker?     Is  the  blind 
And  thoughtless   power  that  drew  thee  dumbly 

down 

To  cut  this  gash  across  the  layered  globe, 
The  sole  creative  cause  of  all  I  see? 
Are  force  and  matter  all?     The  rest  a  dream? 

Then  is  thy  gorge  a  canyon  of  despair, 

A  prison  for  the  soul  of  man,  a  grave 

Of  all  his  dearest  daring  hopes !    The  world 

Wherein  we  live  and  move  is  meaningless, 

No  spirit  here  to  answer  to  our  own! 

The    stars   without    a    guide !      The    chance-born 

Earth 

Adrift  in  space,  no  Captain  on  the  ship ! 
Nothing  in  all  the  universe  to  prove 
Eternal  wisdom  and  eternal  love ! 
And  man,  the  latest  accident  of  Time,  — 
Who  thinks  he  loves,  and  longs  to  understand, 
Who  vainly  suffers,  and  in  vain  is  brave, 
Who  dupes  his  heart  with  immortality,— 
Man  is  a  living  lie,  —  a  bitter  jest 
Upon  himself,  —  a  conscious  grain  of  sand 
Lost  in  a  desert  of  unconsciousness, 
Thirsting  for  God  and  mocked  by  his  own  thirst. 


Spirit  of  Beauty,  mother  of  delight, 

Thou  fairest  offspring  of  Omnipotence, 

Inhabiting  this  lofty  lone  abode ! 

Speak  to  my  heart  again  and  set  me  free 

From    all   these   doubts   that   darken   earth   and 

heaven ! 

Who  sent  thee  forth  into  the  wilderness 
To  bless  and  comfort  all  who  see  thy  face? 
Who  clad  thee  in  this  more  than  royal  robe 
Of    rainbows?      Who    designed     these    jewelled 

thrones 

For  thee,  and  wrought  these  glittering  palaces? 
Who  gave  thee  power  upon  the  soul  of  man 
To  lift  him  up  through  wonder  into  joy? 
God  !  let  the  radiant  cliffs  bear  witness !    God, 
Let  all  the  shining  pillars  signal  —  God ! 
He  only,  on  the  mystic  loom  of  light, 
Hath  woven  webs  of  loveliness  to  clothe 
His  most  majestic  works:  and  He  alone 
Hath  delicately  wrought  the  cactus-flower 
To  star  the  desert  floor  with  rosy  bloom. 

O  Beauty,  handiwork  of  the  Most  High, 
Where'er  thou  art  He  tells  his  Love  to  man, 
And  lo,  the  day  breaks,  and  the  shadows  flee ! 


Now,  far  beyond  all  language  and  all  art 
In  thy  wild  splendour,  Canyon  Marvellous, 
The  secret  of  thy  stillness  lies  unveiled 
In  wordless  worship  !    This  is  holy  ground,  — 
Thou  art  no  grave,  no  prison,  but  a  shrine. 
Garden  of  Temples  rilled  with  Silent  Praise, 
If  God  were  blind  thy  Beauty  could  not  be ! 

February  24-26,  1913. 


SIERRA  MADRE 

MOTHER  mountains!   billowing  far  to  the 
snow-lands, 
Robed  in  aerial  amethyst,  silver,  and  blue, 
Why  do  ye  look  so  proudly  down  on  the  lowlands? 
What  have  their  groves  and  gardens  to  do  with 
you? 

Theirs  is  the  languorous  charm  of  the  orange  and 

myrtle, 
Theirs  are  the  fruitage  and  fragrance  of  Eden  of 

old,  - 

Broad -boughed  oaks  in  the  meadows  fair  and  fer 
tile, 

Dark-leaved  orchards  gleaming  with  globes  of 
gold. 

You,  in  your  solitude  standing,  lofty  and  lonely, 
Bear  neither  garden  nor  grove  on  your  barren 

breasts ; 
Rough  is  the  rock-loving  growth  of  your  canyons, 

and  only 
Storm-battered  pines  and  fir-trees  cling  to  your 

crests. 

Why  are  ye  throned  so  high  and  arrayed  in  splen 
dour 


Richer  than  all  the  fields  at  your  feet  can  claim  ? 

What  is  your  right,  ye  rugged  peaks,  to  the  tender 

Queenly  promise  and  pride  of  the  mother-name  ? 

Answered    the    mountains,    dim    in   the    distance 

dreaming: 
"  Ours  are  the  forests  that  treasure  the  riches 

of  rain; 

Ours  are  the  secret  springs  and  the  rivulets  gleam 
ing 

Silverly  down  through  the  manifold  bloom  of 
the  plain. 

"  Vain  were  the  toiling  of  men  in  the  dust  of  the 

dry  land, 

Vain  were  the  plowing  and  planting  in  water 
less  fields, 
Save  for  the  life-giving  currents  we  send  from  the 

sky-land, 

Save  for  the  fruit  our  embrace  with  the  storm- 
cloud  yields." 

O  mother  mountains,  Madre  Sierra,  I  love  you ! 
Rightly  you  reign  o'er  the  vale  that  your  bounty 

fills,  - 
Kissed  by  the  sun,  or  with  big,  bright  stars  above 

you,- 

I  murmur  your  name  and  lift  up  mine  eyes  to 
the  hills. 

Pasadena,  March,  1913. 


10 


A] 


TEXAS 

A  DEMOCRATIC  ODE* 

I 

THE  WILD  BEES 

LL  along  the  Brazos  river, 

All  along  the  Colorado, 
In  the  valleys  and  the  lowlands 
Where  the  trees  were  tall  and  stately, 
In  the  rich  and  rolling  meadows 
Where  the  grass  was  full  of  wild -flowers, 
Came  a  humming  and  a  buzzing, 
Came  the  murmur  of  a  going 
To  and  fro  among  the  tree-tops, 
Far  and  wide  across  the  meadows. 
And  the  red-men  in  their  tepees 
Smoked  their  pipes  of  clay  and  listened. 
"  What  is  this?  "  they  asked  in  wonder; 
"  Who  can  give  the  sound  a  meaning? 
Who  can  understand  the  language 
Of  a  going  in  the  tree-tops?" 
Then  the  wisest  of  the  Tejas 
Laid  his  pipe  aside  and  answered: 
"  O  my  brothers,  these  are  people, 
Very  little,  winged  people, 
Countless,  busy,  banded  people, 

*  Read  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Rice  Institute,  Houston, 
Texas,  October,  1912. 


II 


Coming  humming  through  the  timber. 
These  are  tribes  of  bees,  united 
By  a  single  aim  and  purpose, 
To  possess  the  Tejas'  country, 
Gather  harvest  from  the  prairies, 
Store  their  wealth  among  the  timber. 
These  are  hive  and  honey  makers, 
Sent  by  Manito  to  warn  us 
That  the  white  men  now  are  coming, 
With  their  women  and  their  children. 
Not  the  fiery  filibusters 
Passing  wildly  in  a  moment, 
Like  a  flame  across  the  prairies, 
Like  a  whirlwind  through  the  forest, 
Leaving  empty  lands  behind  them ! 
Not  the  Mexicans  and  Spaniards, 
Indolent  and  proud  hidalgos, 
Dwelling  in  their  haciendas, 
Dreaming,  talking  of  tomorrow, 
While  their  cattle  graze  around  them, 
And  their  fickle  revolutions 
Change  the  rulers,  not  the  people ! 
Other  folk  are  these  who  follow 
When  the  wild-bees  come  to  warn  us; 
These  are  hive  and  honey  makers, 
These  are  busy,  banded  people, 
Roaming  far  to  swarm  and  settle, 
Working  every  day  for  harvest, 
Fighting  hard  for  peace  and  order, 
Worshiping  as  queens  their  women, 
Making  homes  and  building  cities 
Full  of  riches  and  of  trouble. 


12 


All  our  hunting-grounds  must  vanish, 
All  our  lodges  fall  before  them, 
All  our  customs  and  traditions, 
All  our  happy  life  of  freedom, 
Fade  away  like  smoke  before  them. 
Come,  my  brothers,  strike  your  tepees, 
Call  your  women,  load  your  ponies ! 
Let  us  take  the  trail  to  westward, 
Where  the  plains  are  wide  and  open, 
Where  the  bison -herds  are  gathered 
Waiting  for  our  feathered  arrows. 
We  will  live  as  lived  our  fathers, 
Gleaners  of  the  gifts  of  nature, 
Hunters  of  the  unkept  cattle, 
Men  whose  women  run  to  serve  them. 
If  the  toiling  bees  pursue  us, 
If  the  white  men  seek  to  tame  us, 
We  will  fight  them  off  and  flee  them, 
Break  their  hives  and  take  their  honey, 
Moving  westward,  ever  westward, 
There  to  live  as  lived  our  fathers." 
So  the  red-men  drove  their  ponies, 
With  the  tent-poles  trailing  after, 
Out  along  the  path  to  sunset, 
While  along  the  river  valleys 
Swarmed  the  wild -bees,  the  forerunners; 
And  the  white  men,  close  behind  them, 
Men  of  mark  from  old  Missouri, 
Men  of  daring  from  Kentucky, 
Tennessee,  Louisiana, 
Men  of  many  States  and  races, 


Bringing  wives  and  children  with  them, 
Followed  up  the  wooded  valleys, 
Spread  across  the  rolling  prairies, 
Raising  homes  and  reaping  harvests. 
Rude  the  toil  that  tried  their  patience, 
Fierce  the  rights  that  proved  their  courage, 
Rough  the  stone  and  tough  the  timber 
Out  of  which  they  built  their  order ! 
Yet  they  never  failed  nor  faltered, 
And  the  instinct  of  their  swarming 
Made  them  one  and  kept  them  working, 
Till  their  toil  was  crowned  with  triumph, 
And  the  country  of  the  Tejas 
Was  the  fertile  land  of  Texas. 


II 

THE  LONE  STAR 

Behold  a  star  appearing  in  the  South  — 
A  star  that  shines  apart  from  other  stars, 

Ruddy  and  fierce,  like  Mars ! 
Out  of  the  reeking  smoke  of  cannon's  mouth 
That  veils  the  slaughter  of  the  Alamo, 

Where  heroes  face  the  foe, 

One  man  against  a  score,  with  blood-choked  breath 
Shouting  the  watchword,  "  Victory  or  Death  — 
Out  of  the  dreadful  cloud  that  settles  low 

On  Goliad's  plain, 

Where  thrice  a  hundred  prisoners  lie  slain 
Beneath  the  broken  word  of  Mexico  — 
Out  of  the  fog  of  factions  and  of  feuds 

That  ever  drifts  and  broods 
Above  the  bloody  path  of  border  war, 

Leaps  the  Lone  Star ! 


What  light  is  this  that  does  not  dread  the  dark? 
What  star  is  this  that  fights  a  stormy  way 

To  San  Jacinto's  field  of  victory? 

It  is  the  fiery  spark 

That  burns  within  the  breast 
Of  Anglo-Saxon  men,  who  can  not  rest 

Under  a  tyrant's  sway; 

The  upward-leading  ray 
That  guides  the  brave  who  give  their  lives  away 

Rather  than  not  be  free! 
O  question  not,  but  honour  every  name, 
Travis  and  Crockett,  Bowie,  Bonham,  Ward, 
Fannin  and  King,  all  who  drew  the  sword 
And  dared  to  die  for  Texan  liberty ! 
Yea,  write  them  all  upon  the  roll  of  fame, 
But  no  less  love  and  equal  honour  give 
To  those  who  paid  the  longer  sacrifice  — 
Austin  and  Houston,  Burnet,  Rusk,  Lamar 
And  all  the  stalwart  men  who  dared  to  live 
Long  years  of  service  to  the  lonely  star. 


16 


Great  is  the  worth  of  such  heroic  souls: 
Amid  the  strenuous  turmoil  of  their  deeds, 
They  clearly  speak  of  something  that  controls 
The  higher  breeds  of  men  by  higher  needs 
Than  bees,  content  with  honey  in  their  hives! 

Ah,  not  enough  the  narrow  lives 
On  profitable  toil  intent ! 
And  not  enough  the  guerdons  of  success 
Garnered  in  homes  of  affluent  selfishness ! 

A  noble  discontent 

Cries  for  a  wider  scope 
To  use  the  wider  wings  of  human  hope; 

A  vision  of  the  common  good 
Opens  the  prison-door  of  solitude; 

And,  once  beyond  the  wall, 

Breathing  the  ampler  air, 

The  heart  becomes  aware 
That  life  without  a  country  is  not  life  at  all. 

A  country  worthy  of  a  freeman's  love; 

A  country  worthy  of  a  good  man's  prayer; 

A  country  strong,  and  just,  and  brave,  and 
fair, — 

A  woman's  form  of  beauty  throned  above 

The  shrine  where  noble  aspirations  meet  — 

To  live  for  her  is  great,  to  die  is  sweet ! 


Heirs  of  the  rugged  pioneers 
Who  dreamed  this  dream  and  made  it  true, 
Remember  that  they  dreamed  for  you. 
They  did  not  fear  their  fate 
In  those  tempestuous  years, 

But  put  their  trust  in  God,  and  with  keen  eyes, 
Trained  in  the  open  air  for  looking  far, 
They  saw  the  many-million-acred  land 
Won  from  the  desert  by  their  hand, 
Swiftly  among  the  nations  rise,  — 
Texas  a  sovereign  State, 
And  on  her  brow  a  star ! 


18 


ni 

THE    CONSTELLATION 

How  strange  that  the  nature  of  light  is  a  thing 

beyond  our  ken, 
And  the  flame  of  the  tiniest  candle  flows  from  a 

fountain  sealed ! 
How  strange  that  the  meaning  of  life,  in  the  little 

lives  of  men, 

So  often  baffles  our  search  with  a  mystery  un- 
revealed ! 

But  the  larger  life  of  man,  as  it  moves  in  its  sec 
ular  sweep, 
Is  the  working  out  of  a  Sovereign  Will  whose 

ways  appear; 
And   the   course   of  the  journeying  stars  on  the 

dark  blue  boundless  deep, 

Is  the  place  where  our  science  rests  in  the  reign 
of  law  most  clear. 

I  would  read  the  story  of  Texas  as  if  it  were 

written  on  high; 
I    would   look   from    afar   to   follow   her   path 

through  the  calms  and  storms; 
With  a  faith  in  the  worldwide  sway  of  the  Reason 

that  rules  in  the  sky, 

And    gathers    and    guides    the    starry    host    in 
clusters  and  swarms. 


When  she  rose  in  the  pride  of  her  youth,   she 

seemed  to  be  moving  apart, 
As  a  single  star  in  the  South,  self-limited,  self- 
possessed; 
But  the  law  of  the  constellation  was  written  deep 

in  her  heart, 

And  she  heard  when  her  sisters  called,  from  the 
North  and  the  East  and  the  West. 

They  were  drawn  together  and  moved  by  a  com 
mon  hope  and  aim  — 
The  dream  of  a  sign  that  should  rule  a  third 

of  the  heavenly  arch; 
The  soul  of  a  people  spoke  in  their  call,  and  Texas 

came 

To  enter  the  splendid  circle  of  States  in  their 
onward  march. 

So  the  glory  gathered  and  grew  and  spread  from 

sea  to  sea, 
And  the  stars  of  the  great  republic  lent  each 

other  light; 
For  all  were  bound  together  in  strength,  and  each 

was  free  — 

Suddenly  broke  the  tempest  out  of  the  ancient 
night ! 


20 


It  came  as  a  clash  of  the  force  that  drives  and 

the  force  that  draws; 
And  the  stars  were  riven  asunder,  the  heavens 

were  desolate, 
While  brother  fought  with  brother,  each  for  his 

country's  cause  — 

But  the  country  of  one  was  the  Nation,  the 
country  of  other  the  State. 

Oh,  who  shall  measure  the  praise  or  blame  in  a 

strife  so  vast? 
And    who    shall    speak    of   traitors    or    tyrants 

when  all  were  true? 
We  lift  our  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  rejoice  that  the 

storm  is  past, 

And  we  thank  the  God  of  all  that  the  Union 
shines  in  the  blue. 

Yea,  it  glows  with  the  glory  of  peace  and  the 

hope  of  a  mighty  race, 
High  over  the  grave  of  broken  chains  and  buried 

hates; 
And  the  great,  big  star  of  Texas  is  shining  clear  in 

its  place 

In  the  constellate  symbol  and  sign  of  the  free 
United  States. 


21 


IV 

AFTER  THE  PIONEERS 

After  the  pioneers  — 

Big-hearted,  big-handed  lords  of  the  axe  and  the 

plow  and  the  rifle, 
Tan-faced  tamers  of  horses  and  lands,  themselves 

remaining  tameless, 
Full  of  righting,  labour  and  romance,  lovers  of  rude 

adventure  — 
After  the  pioneers  have  cleared  the  way  to  their 

homes  and  graves  on  the  prairies: 

After  the  State -builders  - 

Zealous  and  jealous  men,  dreamers,  debaters,  often 

at  odds  with  each  other, 

All  of  them  sure  it  is  well  to  toil  and  to  die,  if  need  be, 
Just  for  the  sake  of  founding  a  country  to  leave 

to  their  children  — 
After   the    builders    have    done    their    work    and 

written  their  names  upon  it: 

After  the  civil  war  — 

Wildest  of  all  storms,  cruel  and  dark  and  seem 
ingly  wasteful, 

Tearing  up  by  the  root  the  vines  that  were  split 
ting  the  old  foundations, 

Washing  away  with  a  rain  of  blood  and  tears  the 
dust  of  slavery, 

After  the  cyclone  has  passed  and  the  sky  is  fair 
to  the  far  horizon; 

After  the  era  of  plenty  and  peace  has  come  with 
full  hands  to  Texas, 

Then  — what  then? 


22 


Is  it  to  be  the  life  of  an  indolent  heir,  fat-witted 
and  self-contented, 

Dwelling  at  ease  in  the  house  that  others  have 
builded, 

Boasting  about  the  country  for  which  he  has 
done  nothing? 

Is  it  to  be  an  age  of  corpulent,  deadly-dull  pros 
perity, 

Richer  and  richer  crops  to  nourish  a  race  of  Phi 
listines, 

Bigger  and  bigger  cities  full  of  the  same  confusion 
and  sorrow, 

The  people  increasing  mightily  but  no  increase  of 
the  joy? 

Is  this  what  the  forerunners  wished  and  toiled  to 
win  for  you, 

This  the  reward  of  war  and  the  fruitage  of  high 
endeavor, 

This  the  goal  of  your  hopes  and  the  vision  that 
satisfies  you? 

Nay,  stand  up  and  answer  —  I  can  read  what  is 

in  your  hearts  — 
You,  the  children  of  those  who  followed  the  wild 

bees, 
You,  the  children  of  those  who  served  the  Lone 

Star, 
Now  that  the  hives  are  full  and  the  star  is  fixed 

in  the  constellation, 
I  know  that  the  best  of  you  still  are  lovers  of 

sweetness  and  light! 


You  hunger  for  honey  that  comes  from  invisible 

gardens ; 
Pure,   translucent,    golden   thoughts   and   feelings 

and  inspirations, 
Sweetness  of  all  the  best  that  has  bloomed  in  the 

mind  of  man. 

You  rejoice  in  the  light  that  is  breaking  along 
the  borders  of  science; 

The  hidden  rays  that  enable  a  man  to  look  through 
a  wall  of  stone; 

The  unseen,  fire-filled  wings  that  carry  his  words 
across  the  ocean; 

The  splendid  gift  of  flight  that  shines,  half-cap 
tured,  above  him; 

The  gleam  of  a  thousand  half-guessed  secrets, 
just  ready  to  be  discovered ! 

You  dream  and  devise  great  things  for  the  com 
ing  race  — 

Children  of  yours  who  shall  people  and  rule  the 
domain  of  Texas; 

They  shall  know,  they  shall  comprehend  more 
than  their  fathers, 

They  shall  grow  in  the  vigour  of  well-rounded  man 
hood  and  womanhood, 

Riper  minds,  richer  hearts,  finer  souls,  the  only 
true  wealth  of  a  nation  — 

The  league-long  fields  of  the  State  are  pledged  to 
ensure  this  harvest! 


24 


Your  old  men  have  dreamed  this  dream  and  your 
young  men  have  seen  this  vision. 

The  age  of  romance  has  not  gone,  it  is  only  be 
ginning; 

Greater  words  than  the  ear  of  man  has  heard  are 
waiting  to  be  spoken, 

Finer  arts  than  the  eyes  of  man  have  seen  are 
sleeping  to  be  awakened  — 

Science  exploring  the  scope  of  the  world, 

Poetry  breathing  the  hope  of  the  world, 

Music  to  measure  and  lead  the  onward  march  of 
man! 

Come,  ye  honoured  and  welcome  guests  from  the 

elder  nations, 

Princes  of  science  and  arts  and  letters, 
Look   on   the   walls    that    embody    the    generous 

dream  of  one  of  the  old  men  of  Texas, 
Enter  these  halls  of  learning  that  rise  in  the  land 

of  the  pioneer's  log-cabin, 
Read  the  confessions  of  faith  that  are  carved  on 

the  stones  around  you: 
Faith  in  the  worth  of  the  smallest  fact  and  the 

laws  that  govern  the  starbeams  — 
Faith  in  the  beauty  of  truth  and  the  truth  of  per 
fect  beauty, 
Faith  in  the  God  who  creates  the  souls  of  men  by 

knowledge  and  love  and  worship. 


This  is  the  faith  of  the  New  Democracy  — 
Proud  and  humble,  patiently  pressing  forward, 
Praising  her  heroes  of  old  and  training  her  future 

leaders, 
Seeking  her  crown  in  a  nobler  race  of  men  and 

women  — 
After  the  pioneers,  sweetness  and  light! 

October,  1912. 


26 


TURN  0'  THE  TIDE 

tide  flows  in  to  the  harbour,  - 
The  bold  tide,  the  gold  tide,  the  flood  o' 

the  sunlit  sea,  — 
And  the  little  ships  riding  at  anchor, 

Are  swinging  and  slanting  their  prows  to  the 

ocean,  panting 

To  lift  their  wings  to  the  wide  wild  air, 
And  venture  a  voyage  they  know  not  where,  — 
To  fly  away  and  be  free ! 

The  tide  runs  out  of  the  harbour,  — 

The  low  tide,   the  slow  tide,   the  ebb  o'   the 

moonlit  bay, — 
And  the  little  ships  rocking  at  anchor, 

Are   rounding   and   turning  their  bows  to  the 

landward,  yearning 
To   breathe   the   breath   of  the   sun-warmed 

strand, 

To  rest  in  the  lee  of  the  high  hill  land,  — 
To  hold  their  haven  and  stay ! 


27 


My  heart  goes  round  with  the  vessels,  — 

My  wild  heart,  my  child  heart,  in  love  with 

the  sea  and  the  land, — 
And  the  turn  o'  the  tide  passes  through  it, 

In   rising   and   falling   with   mystical   currents, 

calling 

At  morn,  to  range  where  the  far  waves  foam, 
At  night,  to  a  harbour  in  love's  true  home, 
With  the  hearts  that  understand ! 

Seal  Harbour,  August  12,  1911. 


28 


RAPPEL  D' AMOUR 

home,  my  love,  come  home! 
The  twilight  is  falling, 
The  whippoorwill  calling, 
The  night  is  very  near, 
And  the  darkness  full  of  fear, 
Come  home  to  my  arms,  come  home ! 

Come  home,  my  love,  come  home! 

In  folly  we  parted, 

And  now,  lonely  hearted, 

I  know  you  look  in  vain 

For  a  love  like  mine  again; 
Come  home  to  my  arms,  come  home ! 

Come  home,  dear  love,  come  home ! 

I've  much  to  forgive  you, 

And  more  yet  to  give  you. 

I'll  put  a  little  light 

In  the  window  every  night,  — 
Come  home  to  my  arms,  come  home. 


29 


THE  FIRST  BIRD  0'  SPRING 

TO  OLIVE  WHEELER 

\X7INTER  on  Mount  Shasta, 

April  down  below; 
Golden  hours  of  glowing  sun, 
Sudden  showers  of  snow ! 
Under  leafless  thickets 
Early  wild-flowers  cling; 
But,  oh,  my  dear,  I'm  fain  to  hear 
The  first  bird  o'  Spring ! 

Alders  are  in  tassel, 

Maples  are  in  bud; 

Waters  of  the  blue  McCloud 

Shout  in  joyful  flood; 

Through  the  giant  pine-trees 

Flutters  many  a  wing; 

But,  oh,  my  dear,  I  long  to  hear 

The  first  bird  o'  Spring ! 


Candle-light  and  fire-light 
Mingle  at  "  the  Bend;" 
'Neath  the  roof  of  Bohai-pan 
Light  and  shadow  blend. 
Sweeter  than  a  wood-thrush 
A  maid  begins  to  sing; 
And,  oh,  my  dear,  I'm  glad  to  hear 
The  first  bird  o'  Spring! 

The  Bend,  California,  April  29,  1913. 


"GRAN*  BOULE" 

A  SEAMAN'S  TALE  OF  THE  SEA 

"17K7E  men  that  go  down  for  a  livin'  in  ships  to 
VV  the  sea,- 

We  love  it  a  different  way  from  you  poets  that 
'bide  on  the  land. 

We  are  fond  of  it,  sure !  But,  you  take  it  as  comin' 
from  me, 

There's  a  fear  and  a  hate  in  our  love  that  a  lands 
man  can't  understand. 

Oh,  who  could  help  likin'  the  salty  smell,  and  the 

blue 
Of  the  waves  that  are  lazily  breathin'  as  if  they 

dreamed  in  the  sun? 
She's  a  Sleepin'  Beauty,  the  sea,  —  but  you  can't 

tell  what  she'll  do; 
And  the  seamen  never  trust  her,  —  they  know  too 

well  what  she's  done ! 

She's  a  wench  like  one  that  I  saw  in  a  singin'- 

play,  - 
Carmen  they  called  her,  —  Lord,  what  a  life  her 

lovers  did  lead ! 
She'd  cuddle  and  kiss  you,  and  sing  you  and  dance 

you  away; 
And  then, — she'd  curse  you,  and  break  you,  and 

throw  you  down  like  a  weed. 


You  may  chance  it  awhile  with  the  girls  like  that, 

if  you  please; 
But  you  want  a  woman  to  trust  when  you  settle 

down  with  a  wife; 
And   a  seaman's  thought  of  growin'   old  at  his 

ease 
Is  a  snug  little  house  on  the  land  to  shelter  the 

rest  of  his  life. 

So  that  was  old  Poisson's  dream,  —  did  you  know 

the  Cap'? 
A  brown  little  Frenchman,  clever,  and  brave,  and 

quick  as  a  fish,  — 

Had  a  wife  and  kids  on  the  other  side  of  the  map,  — 
And  a  rose-covered  cottage  for  them  and  him  was 

his  darlin'  wish. 

"  I  'ave  sail,"  says  he,  in  his  broken-up  Frenchy 

talk, 
"  Mos'  forty -two  year;  I  'ave  go  on  all  part  of 

de  worl'  dat  ees  wet. 

I'm  seeck  of  de  boat  and  de  water.     I  rader  walk 
Wid  ma  Josephine  in  one  garden;  an'  eef  we  get 

tire',  we  set! 


33 


"  You    see    dat    bateau,   Sainte    Brigitte  P      I    bring 

'er  dh'are 
From  de  Breton  coas',  by  gar,  jus'  feefteen  year 

bifore. 
She  ole  w'en  she  come  on  Kebec,  but  Holloway 

Freres 
Dey  buy  'er,  an'  hire  me  run  'er  along  dat  dam' 

Nort'  Shore. 

"Dose    engine    one    leetP   bit  cranky,  —  too  ole, 

you  see,  — 
She  roll  and  peetch  in  de  wave'.     But  I  lak'  'er 

pretty  well; 

An'  dat  sheep  she  lak'  'er  captaine,  sure,  dat's  me  ! 
Wit'  forty  ton  coal  in  de  bunker,  I  tek'  dat  sheep 

t'rou'  hell. 

"  But  I  don'  wan'  risk  it  no  more;  I   had   bonne 

chance : 
I  save  already  ten  t'ousan'  dollar',  dat's  plenty  I 

s'pose ! 
Nex'  winter  I  buy  dat  house  wid  de  garden  on 

France 
An'  I  tell  adieu  to  de  sea,  and  I  leev'  on  de  Ian' 

in  ripose." 


34 


All  summer  he  talked  of  his  house, —  you  could 
see  the  flowers 

Abloom,  and  the  pear-trees  trained  on  the  garden- 
wall  so  trim, 

And  the  Captain  awalkin'  and  smokin'  away  the 
hours,  — 

He  thought  he  had  done  with  the  sea,  but  the 
sea  hadn't  done  with  him ! 

It  was  late  in  the  fall  when  he  made  the  last 

regular  run, 
Clear  down  to  the  Esquimault  Point  and  back 

with  his  rickety  ship; 
She  hammered  and  pounded  a  lot,  for  the  storms 

had  begun; 
But  he  drove  her,  —  and  went  for  his  season's  pay 

at  the  end  of  the  trip. 

Now  the  Holloway  Brothers  are  greedy  and  thin 
little  men, 

With  their  eyes  set  close  together,  and  money's 
their  only  God; 

So  they  told  the  Cap'  he  must  run  the  "Bridget" 
again, 

To  fetch  a  cargo  from  Moisie,  two  thousand  quin 
tals  of  cod. 


35 


He  said  the  season  was  over.     They  said:  "  Not 

yet. 
You  finish  the  whole  of  your  job,  old  man,  or  you 

don't  draw  a  cent !  " 
(They  had  the  "Bridget"  insured  for  all  they  could 

get.) 
And  the  Captain  objected,  and  cursed,  and  cried. 

But  he  went. 

They  took  on  the  cargo  at  Moisie,  and  folks  be 
side,  — 

Three  traders,  a  priest,  and  a  couple  of  nuns,  and 
a  girl 

For  a  school  at  Quebec,  —  when  the  Captain  saw 
her  he  sighed, 

And  said:  "  Ma  littl'  Fifi  got  hair  lak'  dat,  all 
curl !  " 

The  snow  had  fallen  a  foot,  and  the  wind  was 
high, 

When  the  "Bridget"  butted  her  way  thro'  the  bil 
lows  on  Moisie  bar. 

The  darkness  grew  with  the  gale,  not  a  star  in  the 
sky, 

And  the  Captain  swore:  "  We  mus'  make  Sept 
Isles  to-night,  by  gar !  " 


He  couldn't  go  back,  for  he  didn't  dare  to  turn; 

The  sea  would  have  thrown  the  ship  like  a  mus 
tang  noosed  with  a  rope; 

For  the  monstrous  waves  were  leapin'  high  astern, 

And  the  shelter  of  Seven  Island  Bay  was  the  only 
hope. 

There's  a  bunch  of  broken  hills  half  sunk  in  the 

mouth 
Of  the  bay,  with  their  jagged  peaks  afoam;  and 

the  Captain  thought 
He  could  pass  to  the  north;  but  the  sea  kept 

shovin'  him  south, 
With  her  harlot  hands  in  the  snow-blind  murk, 

till  she  had  him  caught. 

She  had  waited  forty  years  for  a  night  like  this,  — 
Did  he  think  he  could  leave  her  now,  and  live  in 

a  cottage,  the  fool? 
She  headed  him  straight  for  the  island  he  couldn't 

miss; 
And  heaved  his  boat  in  the  dark,  —  and  smashed 

it  against  Gran   Boule. 


37 


How  the  Captain  and  half  of  the  people  clam 
bered  ashore, 

Through  the  surf  and  the  snow  in  the  gloom  of 
that  horrible  night, 

There's  no  one  ever  will  know;  for  two  days  more 

The  death-white  shroud  of  the  tempest  covered 
the  island  from  sight. 

How  they  suffered,  and  struggled,  and  died,  will 

never  be  told; 
We  discovered  them  all  at  last  when  we  reached 

Gran'  Boule  with  a  boat; 
The  drowned  and  the   frozen  were  lyin'  stiff  and 

cold, 
And  the  poor  little  girl  with  the  curls  was  wrapped 

in  the  Captain's  coat. 

Go  write  your  song  of  the  sea  as  the  landsmen  do, 
And  call  her  your   "  great  sweet  mother,"   your 

"  bride,"  and  all  the  rest; 
She  was  made  to  be  loved,  —  but  remember,  she 

won't  love  you,  — 
The  men  who  trust  her  the  least  are  the  sailors 

who  know  her  the  best. 


HEROES  OF  THE  "TITANIC" 

TLJONOUR  the  brave  who  sleep 
"     Where  the  lost  "  Titanic  "  lies, 
The  men  who  knew  what  a  man  must  do 
When  he  looks  Death  in  the  eyes. 

"  Women  and  children  first," 

Ah,  strong  and  tender  cry ! 
The  sons  whom  women  had  borne  and  nursed, 

Remembered,  —  and  dared  to  die. 

The  boats  crept  off  in  the  dark: 

The  great  ship  groaned :  and  then,  — 

O  stars  of  the  night,  who  saw  that  sight, 
Bear  witness,  These  were  men! 

November  9,  1912. 


THE  STANDARD-BEARER 


"  TJfOW  can  I  tell,"  Sir  Edward  said, 

"  Who  has  the  right  or  the  wrong  o*  this 

thing  ? 

Cromwell  stands  for  the  people's  cause, 
Charles  is  crowned  by  the  ancient  laws; 
English  meadows  are  sopping  red, 
Englishmen  striking  each  other  dead,  — 

Times  are  black  as  a  raven's  wing. 
Out  of  the  ruck  and  the  mirk  I  see 

Only  one  thing ! 

The  King  has  trusted  his  banner  to  me, 
And  I  must  fight  for  the  King." 


40 


Into  the  thick  of  the  Edgehill  fight 

Sir  Edward  rode  with  a  shout;  and  the  ring 
Of  grim-faced,  hard-hitting  Parliament  men 
Swallowed  him  up,  —  it  was  one  against  ten 

He  fought  for  the  standard  with  all  his  might, 

Never  again  did  he  come  to  sight  — 
Victor,  hid  by  the  raven's  wing ! 

After  the  battle  had  passed  we  found 
Only  one  thing,  — 

The  hand  of  Sir  Edward  gripped  around 
The  banner-staff  of  his  King. 


PEACE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

LORD  our  God,  Thy  mighty  hand 

Hath  made  our  country  free; 
From  all  her  broad  and  happy  land 
May  praise  arise  to  Thee. 
Fulfill  the  promise  of  her  youth, 
Her  liberty  defend; 
By  law  and  order,  love  and  truth, 
America  befriend ! 

The  strength  of  every  State  increase 
In  Union's  golden  chain; 
Her  thousand  cities  fill  with  peace, 
Her  million  fields  with  grain. 
The  virtues  of  her  mingled  blood 
In  one  new  people  blend; 
By  unity  and  brotherhood, 
America  befriend ! 


42 


O  suffer  not  her  feet  to  stray; 

But  guide  her  untaught  might, 

That  she  may  walk  in  peaceful  day, 

And  lead  the  world  in  light. 

Bring  down  the  proud,  lift  up  the  poor, 

Unequal  ways  amend; 

By  justice,  nation-wide  and  sure, 

America  befriend ! 

Thro'  all  the  waiting  land  proclaim 

Thy  gospel  of  good-will; 

And  may  the  music  of  Thy  name 

In  every  bosom  thrill. 

O'er  hill  and  vale,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Thy  holy  reign  extend; 

By  faith  and  hope  and  charity, 

America  befriend ! 


43 


CHRISTMAS  TEARS 

day  returns  by  which  we  date  our  years: 
Day  of  the  joy  of  giving,  —  that  means  love; 
Day  of  the  joy  of  living,  —  that  means  hope; 
Day  of  the  Royal  Child,  —  and  day  that  brings 
To  older  hearts  the  gift  of  Christmas  tears ! 

Look,  how  the  candles  twinkle  through  the  tree, 
The  children  shout  when  baby  claps  his  hands, 
The  room  is  full  of  laughter  and  of  song ! 
Your  lips  are  smiling,  dearest,  —  tell  me  why 
Your  eyes  are  brimming  full  of  Christmas  tears? 

Was  it  a  silent  voice  that  joined  the  song? 
A  vanished  face  that  glimmered  once  again 
Among  the  happy  circle  round  the  tree? 
Was  it  an  unseen  hand  that  touched  your  cheek 
And  brought  the  secret  gift  of  Christmas  tears? 


Not  dark  and  angry  like  the  winter  storm 
Of  selfish  grief,  —  but  full  of  starry  gleams, 
And  soft  and  still  that  others  may  not  weep, — 
Dews  of  remembered  happiness  descend 
To  bless  us  with  the  gift  of  Christmas  tears. 

Ah,  lose  them  not,  dear  heart,  —  life  has  no  pearls 
More  pure  than  memories  of  joy  love-shared. 
See,  while  we  count  them  one  by  one  with  prayer, 
The  Heavenly  hope  that  lights  the  Christmas  tree 
Has  made  a  rainbow  in  our  Christmas  tears ! 


45 


DOROTHEA 

1888-1912 

A    DEEPER  crimson  in  the  rose, 
•^^     A  deeper  blue  in  sky  and  sea, 
And  ever,  as  the  summer  goes, 
A  deeper  loss  in  losing  thee ! 

A  deeper  music  in  the  strain 
Of  hermit-thrush  from  lonely  tree; 
And  deeper  grows  the  sense  of  gain 
My  life  has  found  in  having  thee. 

A  deeper  love,  a  deeper  rest, 

A  deeper  joy  in  all  I  see; 

And  ever  deeper  in  my  breast 

A  silver  song  that  comes  from  thee ! 

Mount  Desert,  August  i,  1912. 


THREE  PRAYERS  FOR  SLEEP  AND 
WAKING 

i 

BEDTIME 

"ORE  thou  sleepest  gently  lay 
•^     Every  troubled  thought  away: 
Put  off  worry  and  distress 
As  thou  puttest  off  thy  dress: 
Drop  thy  burden  and  thy  care 
In  the  quiet  arms  of  prayer. 

Lord,   Thou  knottiest  how  I  live, 
Jill  I've  done  amiss  forgive: 
Jill  of  good  I've  tried  to  do, 
Strengthen,  bless,  and  carry  through: 
All  I  love  in  safety  £eep, 
While  in  Thee  I  fall  asleep. 


47 


n 

NIGHT  WATCH 


If  slumber  should  forsake 
Thy  pillow  in  the  dark, 
Fret  not  thyself  to  mark 

How  long  thou  liest  awake. 

There  is  a  better  way; 

Let  go  the  strife  and  strain, 
Thine  eyes  will  close  again, 

If  thou  wilt  only  pray. 

Lord,  Thy  peaceful  gift  restore, 
Give  my  body  sleep  once  more: 
While  I  wait  my  soul  will  rest 
a  child  upon  Thy  breast. 


m 

NEW  DAY 

Ere  thou  risest  from  thy  bed, 

Speak  to  God  Whose  wings  were  spread 

O'er  thee  in  the  helpless  night: 

lx>,  He  wakes  thee  now  with  light ! 

Lift  thy  burden  and  thy  care 

In  the  mighty  arms  of  prayer. 

Lord,  the  newness  of  this  day 
Calls  me  to  an  untried  way: 
Let  me  gladly  ta^e  the  roadt 
Qive  me  strength  to  bear  my  loadt 
Thou  my  guide  and  helper  be  — 
/  will  travel  through  with  Thee. 

The  Mission  Inn, 
California,  Easter,  1913. 


49 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TOMB  IN 
ENGLAND 

"DEAD  here,  O  friend  unknown, 
•"•     Our  grief,  of  her  bereft; 
Yet  think  not  tears  alone 

Within  our  hearts  are  left. 
The  gifts  she  came  to  give, 

Her  heavenly  love  and  cheer, 
Have  made  us  glad  to  live 

And  die  without  a  fear. 

1912. 


THE  TALISMAN 

\7[7HAT  is  Fortune,  what  is  Fame? 

*       Futile  gold  and  phantom  name, 
Riches  buried  in  a  cave, 
Glory  written  on  a  grave. 

What  is  Friendship?     Something  deep 
That  the  heart  can  spend  and  keep: 
Wealth  that  greatens  while  we  give, 
Praise  that  heartens  us  to  live. 

Come,  my  friend,  and  let  us  prove 
Life's  true  talisman  is  love ! 
By  this  charm  we  shall  elude 
Poverty  and  solitude. 

January  21,  1914. 


THORN  AND  ROSE 

richer  than  a  thornless  rose 
Whose  branch  with  beauty  never  glows, 
Is  that  which  every  June  adorns 
With  perfect  bloom  among  its  thorns. 

Merely  to  live  without  a  pain 

Is  little  gladness,  little  gain, 

Ah,  welcome  joy  tho'  mixt  with  grief,  - 

The  thorn-set  flower  that  crowns  the  leaf. 

June  20,  1914. 


STAIN  NOT  THE  SKY 

gods  of  battle,  lords  of  fear, 
Who  work  your  iron  will  as  well 
As  once  ye  did  with  sword  and  spear, 
With  rifled  gun  and  rending  shell,  — 
Masters  of  sea  and  land,  forbear 
The  fierce  invasion  of  the  inviolate  air ! 

With  patient  daring  man  hath  wrought 
A  hundred  years  for  power  to  fly; 

And  will  you  make  his  winged  thought 
A  hovering  horror  in  the  sky, 

Where  flocks  of  human  eagles  sail, 
Dropping  their  bolts  of  death,  on  hill  and  dale  ? 

Ah  no,  the  sunset  is  too  pure, 

The  dawn  too  fair,  the  noon  too  bright 

For  wings  of  terror  to  obscure 

Their  beauty,  and  betray  the  night 

That  keeps  for  man,  above  his  wars, 
The  tranquil  vision  of  untroubled  stars. 


S3 


Pass  on,  pass  on,  ye  lords  of  fear ! 

Your  footsteps  in  the  sea  are  red, 
And  black  on  earth  your  paths  appear 

With  ruined  homes  and  heaps  of  dead. 
Pass  on  to  end  your  transient  reign, 
And  leave  the  blue  of  heaven  without  a  stain. 

The  wrong  ye  wrought  will  fall  to  dust, 
The  right  ye  shielded  will  abide; 

The  world  at  last  will  learn  to  trust 
In  law  to  guard,  and  love  to  guide; 

And  Peace  of  God  that  answers  prayer 
Will  fall  like  dew  from  the  inviolate  air. 

March  5,  1914. 


54 


CARMINA   FESTIVA 


HOW  SPRING  COMES 
TO  SHASTA  JIM 

T  NEVER  saw  no  "  red  gods  ";  I  dunno  wot's  a 
"lure"; 

But  if  it's  sumpin'  takin',  then  Spring  has  got  it 
sure ; 

An'  it  doesn't  need  no  Kiplin's,  nor  yet  no  Lon 
don  Jacks, 

To  make  up  guff  about  it,  while  settin'  in  their 
shacks. 

It's  sumpin'  very  simple  'at  happens  in  the  Spring, 
But  it  changes  all  the  lookin's  of  every  blessed 

thing; 
The   buddin'    woods   look   bigger,    the    mounting 

twice  as  high, 
But  the  house  looks  kindo  smaller,  tho  I  couldn't 

tell  ye  why. 

It's  cur'ous  wot  a  show-down  the  month  of  April 

makes, 
Between  the  reely  livin',  an'  the  things  that's  only 

fakes ! 
Machines  an'  barns  an'  buildin's,  they  never  give 

no  sign; 
But  the  livin'  things  look  lively  when  Spring  is 

on  the  line. 


57 


She  doesn't  come  too  suddin,  nor  she  doesn't  come 

too  slow; 
Her  gaits  is  some  cayprishus,  an*  the  next  ye  never 

know,  — 

A  single-foot  o'  sunshine,  a  buck  o'  snow  er  hail,  — 
But  don't  be  disapp'inted,  for  Spring  ain't  goin' 

ter  fail. 

She's    loopin'    down    the    hillside,  —  the    driffs    is 

fadin'  out. 
She's   runnin'    down   the   river,  —  d'ye   see   them 

risin'  trout? 
She's  loafin'  down  the  canyon,  —  the  squaw-bed's 

growin'  blue, 
An'   the  teeny  Johnny -jump-ups  is  jest  a-peekin' 

thru. 

A  thousan'  miles  o'  pine-trees,  with  Douglas  firs 

between, 

Is  waitin'  for  her  fingers  to  freshen  up  their  green; 
With  little  tips  o'  brightness  the  firs  'ill  sparkle 

thick, 
An'  every  yaller  pine-tree,  a  giant  candle-stick ! 

The  underbrush  is  risin'  an'  spreadin'  all  around, 
Just  like  a  mist  o'  greenness  'at  hangs  above  the 

ground ; 

A  million  manzanitas  'ill  soon  be  full  o'  pink; 
So  saddle  up,   my  sonny,  —  it's  time  to  ride,   I 

think! 


We'll  ford  or  swim  the  river,  becos  there  ain't  no 

bridge; 
We'll  foot  the  gulches  careful,  an'  lope  along  the 

ridge; 
We'll  take  the  trail  to  Nowhere,  an'  travel  till  we 

tire, 
An'   camp  beneath  a  pine-tree,   an'   sleep  beside 

the  fire. 

We'll  see  the  blue-quail  chickens,   an'   hear  'em 

pipin'  clear; 
An'  p'raps  we'll    sight   a   brown-bear,  or   else   a 

bunch  o'  deer; 
But  never  a  heathen  goddess  or  god  'ill  meet  our 

eyes; 
For  why?    There  isn't  any!    They're  just  a  pack 

o'  lies! 

Oh,  wot's  the  use  o'  "  red  gods,"  an'  "  Pan,"  an' 
all  that  stuff? 

The  natcheral  facts  o'  Springtime  is  wonderful 
enuff! 

An'  if  there's  Someone  made  'em,  I  guess  He  un 
derstood, 

To  be  alive  in  Springtime  would  make  a  man  feel 
good. 

California,  1913. 


59 


ANGLERS'  FIRESIDE  SONG 

,  the  angler's  path  is  a  very  merry  way, 
And  his  road  through  the  world  is  bright; 
For  he  lives  with  the  laughing  stream  all  day, 
And  he  lies  by  the  fire  at  night. 

Sing  hey  nonny,  ho  nonny 

And  likewise  well-a-day! 

The  angler's  life  is  a  very  jolly  life 

And  that's  what  the  anglers  say! 

Oh,  the  angler  plays  for  the  pleasure  of  the  game, 

And  his  creel  may  be  full  or  light, 
But  the  tale  that  he  tells  will  be  just  the  same 

When  he  lies  by  the  fire  at  night. 

Sing  hey  nonny,  ho  nonny 

And  likewise  well-a-day ! 

We  love  the  fire  and  the  music  of  the  lyre, 

And  that's  what  the  anglers  say ! 

To  the  San  Francisco  Fly-Casting  Club,  April,  1913. 


60 


A  BUNCH  OF  TROUT-FLIES 

For  Archie  Ruttledge 

LJERE'S  a  half-a-dozen  flies, 

Just  about  the  proper  size 
For  the  trout  of  Dickey's  Run, — 
Luck  go  with  them  every  one ! 

Dainty  little  feathered  beauties, 
Listen  now,  and  learn  your  duties; 
Not  to  tangle  in  the  box; 
Not  to  catch  on  logs  or  rocks, 
Boughs  that  wave  or  weeds  that  float, 
Nor  in  the  angler's  "  pants  "  or  coat ! 
Not  to  lure  the  glutton  frog 
From  his  banquet  in  the  bog; 
Nor  the  lazy  chub  to  fool, 
Splashing  idly  round  the  pool; 
Nor  the  sullen  horned  pout 
From  the  mud  to  hustle  out! 


61 


None  of  this  vulgarian  crew, 
Dainty  flies,  is  game  for  you. 
Darting  swiftly  through  the  air 
Guided  by  the  angler's  care, 
Light  upon  the  flowing  stream 
Like  a  winged  fairy  dream; 
Float  upon  the  water  dancing, 
Through  the  lights  and  shadows  glancing, 
Till  the  rippling  current  brings  you 
And  the  filmy  leader  swings  you 
Where  a  speckled  beauty  lies 
Watching  you  with  hungry  eyes. 

Here's  your  game  and  here's  your  prize! 
Hover  near  him,  lure  him,  tease  him, 
Do  your  very  best  to  please  him, 
Dancing  on  the  water  foamy, 
Like  the  frail  and  fair  Salome,  * 
Till  the  monarch  yields  at  last; 
Rises,  and  you  have  him  fast! 
Then  remember  well  your  duty,  — 
Do  not  lose,  but  land,  your  booty; 
For  the  finest  fish  of  all  is 
Salvelinus  Fontinalis. 


62 


So,  you  plumed  illusions,  go, 
Let  my  comrade  Archie  know 
Every  day  he  goes  a-fishing 
I'll  be  with  him  in  well-wishing. 
Most  of  all  when  lunch  is  laid 
In  the  dappled  orchard  shade, 
With  Will,  Corinne,  and  Dixie  too, 
Sitting  as  we  used  to  do 
Round  the  white  cloth  on  the  grass 
While  the  lazy  hours  pass, 
And  the  brook's  contented  tune 
Lulls  the  sleepy  afternoon,  — 
Then's  the  time  my  heart  will  be 
With  that  pleasant  company! 

June  17,  1913- 


A  BALLAD  OF  SANTA  CLAUS 

For  the  St.  Nicholas  Society  of  New  York 

A  MONO  the  earliest  saints  of  old,  before  the 

"     first  Hegira, 

I  find  the  one  whose  name  we  hold,  St.  Nicholas 
of  Myra: 

The  best-beloved  name,  I  guess,  in  sacred  nomen 
clature,  — 

The  patron-saint  of  helpfulness,  and  friendship, 
and  good-nature. 

A  bishop  and  a  preacher  too,  a  famous  theolo 
gian, 

He  stood  against  the  Arian  crew  and  fought  them 
like  a  Trojan: 

But  when  a  poor  man  told  his  need  and  begged 
an  alms  in  trouble, 

He  never  asked  about  his  creed,  but  quickly  gave 
him  double. 


64 


Three  pretty  maidens,  so  they  say,  were  longing 

to  be  married; 
But  they  were  paupers,  lack-a-day,  and  so  the 

suitors  tarried. 
St.  Nicholas  gave  each  maid  a  purse  of  golden 

ducats  chinking, 
And  then,  for  better  or  for  worse,  they  wedded 

quick  as  winking. 

Once,  as  he  sailed,  a  storm  arose;  wild  waves  the 

ship  surrounded; 
The    sailors    wept    and    tore    their    clothes,    and 

shrieked  "We'll  all  be  drownded !  " 
St.  Nicholas  never  turned  a  hair;  serenely  shone 

his  halo; 
He  simply  said  a  little  prayer,  and  all  the  billows 

lay  low. 

The  wicked  keeper  of  an  inn  had  three  small  ur 
chins  taken, 

And  cut  them  up  in  a  pickle-bin,  and  salted  them 
for  bacon. 

St.  Nicholas  came  and  picked  them  out,  and  put 
their  limbs  together,  — 

They  lived,  they  leaped,  they  gave  a  shout,  "  St. 
Nicholas  forever ! " 


And  thus  it  came  to  pass,  you  know,  that  maids 

without  a  nickel, 
And  sailor-lads  when  tempest  blow,  and  children 

in  a  pickle, 
And  every  man  that's  fatherly,  and  every  kindly 

matron, 
In   choosing   saints   would    all    agree   to   call    St. 

Nicholas  patron. 

He  comes  again  at  Christmas-time  and  stirs  us  up 
to  giving; 

He  rings  the  merry  bells  that  chime  good-will  to 
all  the  living; 

He  blesses  every  friendly  deed  and  every  free  do 
nation  ; 

He  sows  the  secret,  golden  seed  of  love  through 
all  creation. 

Our  fathers  drank  to  Santa  Claus,  the  sixth  of 

each  December, 
And  still  we  keep  his  feast  because  his  virtues  we 

remember. 
Among  the  saintly  ranks  he  stood,  with  smiling 

human  features, 
And  said,  "Be  good!  But  not  too  good  to  love  your 

fellow-creatures!  " 
December  6,  1907. 


66 


THE  LITTLE-NECK  CLAM 

A  modern  verse-sequence,  showing  how  a  native  Amer 
ican  subject,  strictly  realistic,  may  be  treated  in  various 
manners  adapted  to  the  requirements  of  different  magazines, 
thus  combining  Art-for-Art's-Sake  with  Writing-for-the-Mar- 
ket.  Read  at  the  First  Dinner  of  the  American  Periodical 
Publishers'  Association,  in  Washington,  April,  1904. 


THE   ANTI-TRUST   CLAM 

For  McClure's  Magazine 


'"PHE  clam  that  once,  on  Jersey's  banks, 

Was  like  the  man  who  dug  it,  free, 
Now  slave-like  thro'  the  market  clanks 
In  chains  of  corporate  tyranny. 

The  Standard  Fish-Trust  of  New  York 
Holds  every  clam-bank  in  control; 
And  like  base  Beef  and  menial  Pork, 
The  free-born  Clam  has  lost  its  soul. 


No,  more  the  bivalve  treads  the  sands 
In  freedom's  rapture,  free  from  guilt: 
It  follows  now  the  harsh  commands 
Of  Morgiman  and  Rockabilt. 

Rise,  freemen,  rise  !    Your  wrath  is  just ! 
Call  on  the  Sherman  Act  to  dam 
The  floods  of  this  devouring  Trust, 
And  liberate  the  fettered  Clam. 


68 


II 

THE   WHITMANIAC   CLAM 

For  the  Bookman 

IVTOT   Dante  when  he  wandered  by  the   river 

Arno, 
Not  Burns  who  plowed  the  banks  and  braes  of 

bonnie  Ayr, 
Not  even  Shakspere  on  the  shores  of  Avon,  - 

ah,  no! 
Not  one  of  those  great  bards  did  taste  true  Poet's 

Fare. 

But  Whitman,  loafing  in  Long  Island  and  New 

Jersey, 
Found  there  the  sustenance  of  mighty  ode  and 

psalm, 
And   while   his   rude   emotions   swam   around   in 

verse,  he 
Fed   chiefly   on  the  wild,   impassioned,   sea-born 

clam. 

Thus  in  his  work  we  feel  the  waves'  bewildering 

motion, 
And    winds    from    mighty    mud-flats,    weird    and 

wild: 
His  clam-filled  bosom  answered  to  the  voice  of 

ocean, 
And  rose  and  fell  responsively  with  every  tide. 


Ill 

IL  MERCATORE  ITALIANO  BELLA 

CLAMMA 
For  the  Century  Magazine 


O  !   Fres'    Clam  !  "     How   strange    it 
sounds  and  sweet, 
The  Dago's  cry  along  the  New  York  street  ! 
'  'Dago"  we  call  him,  like  the  thoughtless  crowd; 
And  yet  this  humble  man  may  well  be  proud 
To  hail  from  Petrarch's  land,  Boccaccio's  home,  — 
Firenze,  Gubbio,  Venezia,  Rome,  - 
From  fair  Italia,  whose  enchanted  soil 
Transforms  the  lowly  cotton-seed  to  olive-oil. 

To  me  his  chant,  with  alien  accent  sung, 
Brings  back  an  echo  of  great  Virgil's  tongue: 
It  seems  to  cry  against  the  city's  woe,  - 
In  liquid  Latin  syllables,  —  Clamo! 
As  thro'  the  crowded  street  his  cart  he  jams 
And  cries  aloud,  ah,  think  of  more  than  clams  ! 
Receive  his  secret  plaint  with  pity  warm, 
And  grant  Italia's  plea  for  Tenement  -House  Re 
form  ! 


70 


IV 

THE   SOCIAL   CLAM 

For  the  Smart  Set 

AIR  Phyllis  is  another's  bride: 
Therefore  I  like  to  sit  beside 
Her  at  a  very  smart  set  dinner, 
And  whisper  love,  and  try  to  win  her. 

The  little-necks,  —  in  number  six,  - 
That  from  their  pearly  shells  she  picks 
And  swallows  whole,  —  ah,  is  it  selfish 
To  wish  my  heart  among  those  shell-fish? 

"But  Phyllis  is  another's  wife; 

And  if  she  should  absorb  thy  life 

'T  would  leave  thy  bosom  vacant."  —  Well, 

I'd  keep  at  least  thy  empty  shell ! 


V 

THE   RECREANT   CLAM 
For  the  Outlook 

TOW  dost  thou  lie  amid  the  languid  ooze, 
Because  thy  slothful  spirit  doth  refuse 
The  bliss  of  battle  and  the  strain  of  strife. 
Rise,  craven  clam,  and  lead  the  strenuous  life! 


72 


ARS  AGRICOLARIS 

An  Ode  for  the  "  Farmer's  Dinner," 

University  Club,  New  York, 

January  23,  1913 

A  LL  hail,  ye  famous  Farmers ! 
•^^     Ye  vegetable-charmers, 
Who  know  the  art  of  making  barren  earth 
Smile  with  prolific  mirth 

And  bring  forth  twins  or  triplets  at  a  birth ! 
Ye  scientific  fertilizers  of  the  soil, 
And  horny-handed  sons  of  toil ! 
Tonight  from  all  your  arduous  cares  released, 
With  manly  brows  no  longer  sweat-impearled, 
Ye  hold  your  annual  feast, 
And  like  the  Concord  farmers  long  ago, 
Ye  meet  above  the  "  Bridge  "  below, 
And  draw  the  cork  heard  round  the  world ! 


73 


What  memories  are  yours !     What  tales 
Of  triumph  have  your  tongues  rehearsed, 
Telling  how  ye  have  won  your  first 
Potatoes  from  the  stubborn  mead, 
(Almost  as  many  as  ye  sowed  for  seed !) 
And  how  the  luscious  cabbages  and  kails 
Have  bloomed  before  you  in  their  bed 
At  seven  dollars  a  head ! 
And  how  your  onions  took  a  prize 
For  bringing  tears  into  the  eyes 
Of  a  hard-hearted  cook !     And  how  ye  slew 
The  Dragon  Cut-worm  at  a  stroke ! 

And  how  ye  broke, 

Routed,  and  put  to  flight  the  horrid  crew 
Of  vile  potato-bugs  and  Hessian  flies ! 

And  how  ye  did  not  quail 
Before  th'  invading  armies  of  San  Jose  Scale, 
But  met  them  bravely  with  your  little  pail 
Of  poison,  which  ye  put  upon  each  tail 
O'  the  dreadful  beasts  and  made  their  courage  fail ! 
And  how  ye  did  acquit  yourselves  like  men 
In  fields  of  agricultural  strife,  and  then, 
Like  generous  warriors,  sat  you  down  at  ease 
And  gently  to  your  gardener  said,  "  Let  us 
have  'Pease/" 


74 


But  were  there  Pease?    Ah,  no,  dear  Farmers,  no! 
The  course  of  Nature  is  not  ordered  so. 
For  when  we  want  a  vegetable  most, 
She  holds  it  back; 
And  when  we  boast 
To  our  week-endly  friends 
Of  what  we'll  give  them  on  our  farm,  alack, 
Those  things  the  old  dam,  Nature,  never  sends. 
O  Pease  in  bottles,  Sparrow-grass  in  jars, 
How  often  have  ye  saved  from  scars 
Of  shame,  and  deep  embarrassment, 
The  disingenuous  farmer- gent, 

To  whom  some  wondering  guest  has  cried, 
"How  do  you  raise  such  Pease  and  Sparrow- 
grass?  " 

Whereat  the  farmer-gent  has  not  denied 
The  compliment^  but  smiling  has  replied, 
"  To  raise  such  things  you  must  have  lots  of 
glass." 


75 


From  wiles  like  these,  true  Farmers,  hold  aloof; 
Accept  no  praise  unless  you  have  the  proof. 
If  niggard  Nature  should  withhold  the  green 
And  sugary  Pea,  welcome  the  humble  Bean; 
Give  it  the  place  of  honor  at  your  table,  - 
To  speak  for  'tself  the  Bean  is  amply  able ! 
Even  the  easy  Radish,  and  the  Beet, 
If  grown  by  your  own  toil  are  extra  sweet ! 
Let  malefactors  of  great  wealth  and  banker-felons 
Rejoice  in  foreign  artichokes,  imported  melons; 
But  you,  my  Farmers,  at  your  frugal  board 
Spread  forth  the  fare  your  Sabine  Farms  afford. 
Say  to  Maecenas,  when  he  is  your  guest, 
"  No  peaches !  try  this  turnip,  'tis  my  best." 
Thus  shall  ye  learn  from  labors  in  the  field 
What  honesty  a  farmer's  life  may  yield, 
And  like  G.  Washington  in  early  youth, 
Though  cherries  fail,  produce  a  crop  of  truth. 


But  think  me  not  too  strict,  O  followers  of  the 
plow 

Some  place  for  fiction  in  your  lives  I  would  allow. 

In  January  when  the  world  is  drear, 

And  bills  come  in,  and  no  results  appear, 
And  snow-storms  veil  the  skies, 
And  ice  the  streamlet  clogs, 

Then  may  you  warm  your  heart  with  pleasant  lies 

And  revel  in  the  seedsmen's  catalogues! 

What  visions  and  what  dreams  are  these 
Of  cauliflowers  obese,  - 

Of  giant  celery,  taller  than  a  mast,  - 
Of  strawberries 

Like  red  pincushions,  round  and  vast,  - 
Of  succulent  and  spicy  gumbo,  - 
Of  cantaloupes,  as  big  as  Jumbo,  - 
Of  high-strung  beans  without  the  strings,  - 

And  of  a  host  of  other  wild,  romantic  things ! 


77 


Oh,  why  should  Starr  declare 
That  modern  habits  mental  force  impair? 

And  why  should  H.  Marquand  complain 
That  jokes  as  good  as  his  will  never  come  again? 
And  why  should  Bridges  wear  a  gloomy  mien 
About  the  lack  of  fiction  for  his  Magazine? 
The  seedsman's  catalogue  is  all  we  need 
To  stir  our  dull  imaginations 

To  new  creations, 
And  lead  us,  by  the  hand 
Of  Hope,  into  a  fairy-land. 

So  dream,  my  friendly  Farmers,  as  you  will; 
And  let  your  fancy  all  your  garners  fill 
With  wondrous  crops;  but  always  recollect 
That  Nature  gives  us  less  than  we  expect. 
Scorn  not  the  city  where  you  earn  the  wealth 
That,  spent  upon  your  farms,  renews  your  health; 
And  tell  your  wife,  whene'er  the  bills  have  shocked 

her, 

"  A  country-place  is  cheaper  than  a  doctor." 
May  roses  bloom  for  you,  and  may  you  find 
Your  richest  harvest  in  a  tranquil  mind. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


19  1033 


DEC    10  1933 

*  *i 


17   193$ 


APR    18 


MAY     2   1938 


AUG    1    1940 

30Apr  W  G 
RECT  LD 
1960 


938 


2  196?- 


LD  21-50m 


343 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORl^A  LIBRARY 


